


Demon in a Bottle

by kjack89



Series: Les Avengers [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Marvel Avengers Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, Fluffy beginning, Les Amis as Avengers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when things are going well between Grantaire and Enjolras, Granaire receives a message from back home, bringing up things from his past that he would rather not remember, things that may change him, Iron Man, and the Avengers Initiative forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based very, very loosely on the comic storyline of the same name. Ish. 
> 
> My knowledge of the Avengers comes pretty much solely from the movies, so my apologies for mutilating beyond repair any source material.
> 
> For full list of who each of the Amis (and extended characters) are cast as, see the end notes.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: unlike Tony Stark, I own basically nothing of worth, including the rights to any of these characters.

Music pounded through Grantaire’s workshop in the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in Paris. Well, it was either S.H.I.E.L.D.’s or EuroMIND’s, depending on who you asked and depending on how closely the two organizations were working together at the moment. Ever since Captain France’s resurrection — Grantaire loved calling it that, though Enjolras complained that made him sound like a zombie — power had shifted away from the American side of things.

But Grantaire as Iron Man was still a strong connection to both America and the American military industrial complex through R Industries, which was bankrolling this headquarters no matter if it belonged to S.H.I.E.L.D. or EuroMIND. Which was also why he was allowed to play his music at whatever volume he wanted at whatever time of night or day he was working.

And since Enjolras had been gone on a mission for the past few days, all Grantaire had been doing was working in his workshop, trying to develop a new tracking mechanism that would transform with Jehan when he changed. He had hoped to use the polymer he used to keep Courfeyrac from melting his tracker, but thus far Jehan had broken every single tracker.

Since his attention was thoroughly occupied, he didn’t hear the door open, and didn’t notice Enjolras — freshly showered and dressed in normal clothes rather than his Captain France suit — slip inside and lean against the wall, watching him quietly.

In fact, Grantaire didn’t notice until he turned around, a prototype resting delicately on his fingertips, and when he saw Enjolras, he yelped and almost dropped it. “Give a man some warning, would you?” Grantaire snapped, turning back around to set the prototype carefully on the desk.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, sounding anything but.

Grantaire rubbed his hands on his jeans before standing and crossing to Enjolras, kissing him deeply before asking, “Is there a particular reason you were just standing there?”

“I like watching you work,” Enjolras said, shrugging, and Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. Blushing slightly, Enjolras elaborated, “What you can do and build with your hands…it’s art, and it’s incredible.”

Grantaire snorted and shook his head, crossing back to his chair and sitting back down while avoiding Enjolras’s gaze. “I think you’re mistaking my tinkering with some of the things that Feuilly can create with his webs.”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “Well, firstly, you know how I feel about Feuilly, so that’s not really a fair comparison.” Grantaire snorted again but grinned, knowing far too well that Enjolras had a weird bromantic crush on Feuilly, saying that he admired and respected what the orphan had gone through and managed to achieve for himself (Grantaire just wished that Enjolras and Feuilly wouldn’t have that conversation while both wearing skin tight suits that left very little to the imagination — it was like the start to a bad porn movie). “And secondly, I’m not talking about Feuilly, or his webbing. I’m talking about you and everything that you’ve made. Including but not limited to my shield.”

Grantaire leaned back in his chair and looked up at Enjolras appraisingly. “Technically, my father made your shield,” he pointed out calmly, more intrigued than anything. “But I’m more interested in why you’ve suddenly decided to start doling out compliments.”

Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras asked dryly, “A man can’t compliment his boyfriend?”

As much as it made Grantaire’s heart flutter now as much as ever to hear Enjolras refer to him as such, he shook his head and propped his chin on his hand as he studied Enjolras. “A normal man, perhaps, but not you.” Enjolras scowled, but he didn’t argue, and Grantaire smiled. “Which means you must want something.” Enjolras’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t deny it, and Grantaire’s smile widened. “You  _do_  want something, then. And at this time of day, with you wearing jeans that can only be described as criminally tight, I can logically assume that there’s only one thing that you’re looking for.”

Enjolras grinned in what was probably supposed to be a coy manner, if it weren’t for the fact that he looked immensely self-satisfied. “Come with me and we’ll see if you’re right.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him and smirked. “What, you don’t want to show me what you want right here?”

The grin faded on Enjolras’s face and he nodded towards where Dum-E was motionless in the corner. “I don’t care what you say, he taped that last time and almost broadcasted it to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s entire network.”

“Oh, right,” Grantaire said, his grin turning fond at the memory. “Normally I get mad at the idiot for doing stupid shit like that, but I can’t really be mad at him for that, now can I?”

“Speak for yourself,” Enjolras grumbled. “By the time you managed to get JARVIS to delete it from the network, Courfeyrac had already seen it. Not only did he not let it go for six months, but he laughed so hard he almost incinerated headquarters.”

Grantaire’s smirk widened. “Surely you’re not trying to blame me for Courfeyrac’s control issues. Or the fact that he’s a literal sunspot, the little shit.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Either way,” he said impatiently, “I just got back from a mission and I would really like to fuck my boyfriend, preferably without the possibility of Dum-E being, well, a dummy.”

“Fine,” Grantaire sighed, but he was grinning wickedly, and let Enjolras pull him up from his seat. “But I should let you know that I kept a copy of that recording, if ever we, ah, need inspiration.”

Enjolras’s hand slipped around Grantaire’s waist and under his t-shirt, stroking his skin lightly, and Grantaire shivered at the touch. “Thankfully,” Enjolras whispered, his mouth moving against Grantaire’s ear, “I think we’ve got all the inspiration we need right now.”

Grantaire’s eyes darkened and he made a growling noise low in his throat before leading Enjolras out of his workroom, heading directly to his bedroom. “JARVIS,” he said, trying to ignore the way Enjolras was mouthing the side of his neck from behind, “let everyone know that we are not to be disturbed.”

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS responded from the well-hidden speakers. “Shall I inform them that you’re having sex, or let them draw their own conclusions from the sounds they will undoubtedly hear?”

Enjolras froze briefly and Grantaire snorted. “Also remind me to replace the soundproofing panels within my bedroom,” he told JARVIS, opening his bedroom door and practically pushing Enjolras inside. “And now you’re dismissed, JARVIS.”

With that, he slammed the bedroom door behind him and followed Enjolras onto the bed.

* * *

 

“Sir, there’s an urgent message for you.”

Grantaire groaned at the sound of JARVIS’s voice and Enjolras chuckled, the movement enough to remind Grantaire of where they had left off after falling asleep. “Kind of in the middle of something, JARVIS,” he said, rolling on top of Enjolras and mouthing at his collarbone as Enjolras ran his hands down Grantaire’s sides.

JARVIS’s cool voice sounded mildly amused as it replied, “Perhaps we need to work out a metaphorical sock on the door knob system, sir.”

“Perhaps I need to reprogram you to fucking knock when you want something,” Grantaire grumbled, trailing kisses down Enjolras’s chest and moaning when Enjolras’s hand tightened in his hair.

“Regardless, sir, I have a feeling you’re going to want to take this message.”

Enjolras sat up and Grantaire let out a particularly undignified whimpering noise as he rolled off of him. “You should take that,” Enjolras told him, leaning in to kiss him on the lips before standing. “I’ve got work to do anyway.” Grantaire just groaned, knowing that Enjolras’s work could often take him hours, and Enjolras laughed. “Half an hour, I promise. If I’m not done you can have Bahorel shoot lightning at me again, alright?”

Though Grantaire still pouted, he sighed and said, “Fiiiiiine,” drawing the word out as much as possible to show he wasn’t happy with the situation. He kissed Enjolras once more and watched him leave before sighing again and rolling onto his back. “Fire away, JARVIS, and it better be good or you’re going to go the same way as Butterfingers.”

“Your threats are as good a motivation as ever, sir,” JARVIS said dryly before pulling up the message on the wall screen.

Grantaire scanned through the contents of the email and paled. “When did you get this?” he asked quietly.

JARVIS replied, “Just a few minutes ago, sir. Is there any action you would like me to take? I’ve ensured that the R Industries jet is fueled and standing by for your use to travel back to the States.”

Shaking his head, Grantaire tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his chin. “Make sure to have the latest mach suit loaded onto the plane.”

“Are you expecting trouble, sir?”

Grantaire sighed heavily. “Well, I honestly wasn’t expecting to receive this message, so I guess I can’t count trouble out, now can I?”

Thankfully, JARVIS still recognized a rhetorical question and so remained silent while Grantaire pulled his clothes on, his expression distant.

Everyone had a past, and there was a reason why Grantaire had chosen to move to France instead of staying in America, and it surprisingly wasn’t just because of Enjolras, or even because of the balance of power shifting from S.H.I.E.L.D to EuroMIND. Grantaire had been trying to escape his past, and now it looked like it was going to bite him in the ass.

* * *

 

Grantaire found Enjolras surprisingly not doing work, but relaxing in the common room with everyone else, looking more at ease than Grantaire had seen him in weeks, which only further coiled the knot of anxiety in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach.

He slid onto the couch between Enjolras and Bossuet, who shifted, obviously trying not to crush Grantaire against his rock-like skin. “Sorry,” he mouthed at Grantaire, who smiled weakly back at him.

“Not your fault,” Grantaire reassured him, since Bossuet always seem to blame his rocky skin for just about everything that he couldn’t blame on his bad luck — “After all,” Bossuet had told Joly cheerfully, “it’s just my luck that I’d be the one stuck with ugly, rocky skin, right?”. Grantaire leaned against Enjolras’s shoulder. “I thought you were going to do work.”

Enjolras immediately raised a hand to run his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, and Grantaire leaned into the touch. “I  _was_  going to do work,” Enjolras agreed. “But apparently Jehan had a little…accident, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre are doing damage control, so I thought I’d come out here to watch a movie with Bossuet and Joly instead.”

Grantaire nodded, though he felt a pang of guilt that he still hadn’t figured out the tracker for Jehan. “Is Bahorel back from Asgard yet?” Enjolras just shook his head and Grantaire sighed. “Well, now’s probably not a good time for this, but I’m afraid I have to go back to the States.”

“What?” Enjolras said, turning to frown at him, while from where he was levitating near the ceiling, Joly asked, “Why?”

Grantaire glanced up at Joly to see if he was wearing his Eye of Agamotto, which might see through the lie he was about to tell, but other than his Cloak of Levitation, Joly was dressed in his usual doctor’s scrubs. “It’s a small administrative matter with R Industries,” Grantaire told Enjolras lightly. “It shouldn’t take more than a week to sort out at most. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Enjolras nodded, though he didn’t look fully satisfied. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” he said, his voice quiet. “I just got back and I was looking forward to actually spending some time with you.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Well, that’s what happens when you’re dating the President and CEO of a Fortune 500 company.”

His words were intentionally similar to what Enjolras had told him just the week before, when he had been roused from Grantaire’s bed to attend to a situation in Eastern Europe. Then, Enjolras had kissed Grantaire’s forehead as Grantaire complained at Enjolras leaving him and had whispered, “That’s what happens when you’re dating Captain France.”

Now, Enjolras pouted slightly but also nodded in understanding. “Well, you know that if you need anything, you just need to let us know.”

Grantaire forced a smile onto his face and nodded in what he hoped was a convincing manner. “I know,” he reassured him, leaning in to kiss him.

He did know, which was exactly why he wasn’t going to tell them why he was really going back. The last thing he wanted for Enjolras to feel obligated to get involved, and besides, Grantaire could fight his own battles. He  _was_  Iron Man, after all.

So he kissed Enjolras again and told him cheerfully, “I’ll see you soon.”

He managed to keep his smile until he boarded the R Industries jet, and then his smile faded into something far more grim. “JARVIS,” he called, settling into his seat and sipping from the prepared glass of whiskey as the plane taxied for takeoff, “pull up everything we have in our files on Montparnasse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras: Captain France  
> Grantaire: Iron Man  
> Combeferre: Hawkeye  
> Courfeyrac: [Sunspot](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunspot_\(comics\))  
> Feuilly: Spider-Man  
> Bahorel: Thor  
> Joly: [Doctor Strange](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doctor_Strange)  
> Bossuet: [Thing](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thing_\(comics\))  
> Jehan: Hulk  
> Éponine: Black Widow  
> Marius: [Coulson](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phil_Coulson)  
> Cosette: [Maria Hill](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Hill)  
> Valjean: Nick Fury


	2. Chapter 2

From the moment the plane touched down at LAX, Grantaire knew something was wrong. He could feel it in the air, or maybe just in the set of the shoulders of the man who led him from the plane to his private car.

And certainly he was made well aware of the fact that something was wrong when he slid into the leather interior of his company’s car to find that next to him, examining his perfectly manicured nails as if he didn’t have a care in the world, was Montparnasse. “Oh, hello,” Montparnasse said, his oily voice nonchalant as he glanced up at Grantaire. “I hope your flight went well.”

It took all of Grantaire’s self control to not punch him in the face then and there, but he somehow managed it, taking a deep breath. “Montparnasse,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

By ‘here’, he meant not only in the back of his company’s car, but back in the States, back out from the godforsaken hole he’d been hiding in the past few years. Montparnasse chose not answer any of the questions, though, instead glancing around the car. “This is nice,” he remarked, running a hand over the leather. “The company cars have gotten better since I worked for R Industries. Or is this only what’s given to the President and CEO? But I forget,” he continued, not waiting for Grantaire to answer, “the President and CEO of R Industries has a much better way to get around now, doesn’t he? Is the interior of the Iron Man suit leather as well?”

“No,” Grantaire said, shortly. “It’s actually got a layer of body-sensing fabric that adjusts to temperature variations for maximum comfort. Which is fascinating, of course, but doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my car, in California, or emailing me a vague threat that you intend to ‘expose’ Iron Man for what he really is.”

Montparnasse smirked, and leaned back in his seat. “You must be afraid of what I could reveal, or you wouldn’t have flown all the way back here.”

Grantaire snorted. “Your message made it sound like you had nuclear codes or something, and if I didn’t come back, you were planning on launching them. If my only concern is what  _you_  could tell, I may as well get back on the plane to France.”

Leaning in, Montparnasse said in a quiet voice, “And yet, here you sit.” His smirk widened when Grantaire didn’t respond to that, and he sat back. “Which means you must know that I have at least  _something_  that could be potentially damaging to you.”

“You’re a former employee of R Industries who was fired for selling military secrets and technology to the highest bidder,” Grantaire snapped, unable to keep his temper fully in check. “There’s a lot of things that you could say or do that would be very damaging to my company.”

Montparnasse rolled his eyes. “Oh come on,” he scoffed. “You know I have no quarrel with R Industries, and little interest in damaging your company.” His eyes glittered savagely as he added, “My business is with  _you_.”

Grantaire’s throat seemed to tighten and his mouth went dry. “Why?”

“Tell me, how did your family make your fortune?”

Blinking at the sudden change in topic, Grantaire frowned. “We have been weapons contractors since before World War II. My father…well, he was involved in the Captain France project, back when it was still Captain America.” His expression hardened. “We made our fortune by doing everything President Eisenhower warned the country about, by creating the military industrial complex. Is this supposed to frighten me, remembering the terrible things my family and my company was involved in? R Industries has faced military tribunals for war crimes, for assisting genocide, for a host of terrible things. Do you think I don’t know that? But that was years before I was born, let alone head of the company. So what does this have to do with me?”

Montparnasse was examining his nails again, as if he didn’t really care to hear Grantaire’s response. “Was it years ago?” he shot back. “Or was R Industries still selling weapons up until the point when you had a sudden change of heart because of the Iron man suit — or, as some tell the story, because you fell in  _love_  with a hero who couldn’t stand the thought of being with a mercenary?”

Grantaire flinched, despite himself, and looked away. “Enjolras has nothing to do with this,” he said, his voice low. “And I still don’t see what this has to do with me, or with you.”

For the first time, Montparnasse’s smirk slipped, and his expression turned dark as he snarled, “I want to know why I was vilified for what I did, while your company is lauded and applauded, and you are hailed as a hero!”

Just as quickly as his mood had changed, it changed back again, and Montparnasse smoothed the front of his suit jacket. “It is not a manner of money, of course. The settlement with R Industries has taken care of me and will continue to do so probably until I die. It is a manner of honor.” He glanced back up at Grantaire, a small smile playing on his lips. “And that is something that I think your boyfriend can certainly understand.”

“I reiterate,” Grantaire said, a growl in his voice, “Enjolras has nothing to do with this.” Still, he was wary, and watched Montparnasse carefully. “So you want to be lauded as a hero, Montparnasse? Is that it? You’re tired of whatever tropical island lacking an extradition treaty with the US that you found yourself on? And so, what, you think that threatening me is going to help you be called a hero?”

Montparnasse shrugged, the movement fluid and almost Enjolras-like, and Grantaire’s expression darkened. “You can’t just declare yourself a hero,” he snapped. “I  _earned_  my reputation by renouncing the actions of my own company, by bringing our activities above-board and moving us out of the weapons industry, and by saving the lives of countless people since. What have you done to even be mentioned in the same breath?”

Montparnasse laughed, a light, almost tinkling sound that sent shivers down Grantaire’s spine. “Oh, I don’t want to be a hero.”

Grantaire looked taken aback. “You don’t?”

“Of course not,” Montparnasse said, waving a hand dismissively. “Where would the fun be in that? What would that get me, besides a commitment to have to continue being a hero? It’s a hard job to retire from, from what I understand. No, my aim is quite simpler.” His expression turned calculating. “If I cannot be a hero for my actions, then I will not let  _you_  be a hero for  _yours_.”

Grantaire couldn’t help it — he laughed. “You think you can bring down Iron Man?” he snorted. “You and what army? And keep in mind, I’ve defeated armies in my time.”

Montparnasse smiled. “Oh, it’s not the suit I intend on bringing down. Quite the opposite, in fact. See, on my tropical island with no extradition treaty, I’ve been a very busy boy, tweaking and improving your Iron Man suit prototype. And I’ve got several that are ready to be sold to whomever wishes to buy them, which I cannot imagine would be people with as noble aims as yours.”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Tell me, what the world think of Iron Man when it sees Iron Man attacking villages, murdering civilians, carrying out genocide? In short, what will the world think when they see Iron Man committing the same atrocities that R Industries did? And what will they think when they see the Avengers attacking one of their own?”

Grantaire’s mouth was dry, and he swallowed, hard. “They’ll…they’ll know it’s not me,” he said.

“Of course they’ll know it’s not you. Because while my suits are busy with that, I’m going to be busy telling the story of the true Grantaire, the story that isn’t pretty and dressed in a shiny suit standing hand-in-hand with Captain France. And it won’t matter that it’s not you because they’ll hear the story and see the images and connect them regardless.” He leaned in. “And even better, because of what they’re watching Iron Man do, it won’t even matter if the stories I tell are true, though most of them will be.”

Shakily, Grantaire said, “I’ll stop you. I won’t let you do this.”

“Oh really?” Montparnasse asked, delighted. “You and what army? Do you think your friends will stand behind you while this happens? The public? Iron Man is not a man at all, just a hollow shell, and the public and your friends can easily pick someone far more worthy to wear that suit than you. Besides,” and here Montparnasse’s expression turned positively gleeful, “I don’t think you’re going to try to stop me at all.”

Now Grantaire stared at Montparnasse as if he was crazy — well, crazier than he had already revealed. “Why the hell wouldn’t I try to stop you?”

Montparnasse’s grin was wide and vicious. “Because I know you. I’ve known you for years. You may think you’ve gotten over what happened in the past, but you haven’t. You put on a face for everyone else but it eats you up inside thinking of all the people whose deaths you’re responsible for. What is it your charming friend Éponine says? Oh, right — she’s got red in her ledger.” Montparnasse leaned forward, his eyes glinting. “Tell me, how much red do you think you have in  _your_  ledger? And how do you intend on sleeping at night when the whole world knows you for what you really are, when  _Enjolras_  knows you for what you really are?”

Grantaire’s voice was quiet and shook slightly as he said, “Enjolras loves me.”

“Do you truly think he loves you?” Montparnasses asked, something pitying in his voice as he looked at Grantaire, who went very still, unable or unwilling to answer the question. “Or do you think he loves more his idea of what you could be — what you  _should_  be?” He leaned in close to Grantaire. “How many innocent people did Grantaire kill, compared to how many people Iron Man has saved? Do you truly think he could love you, knowing all that you’ve done?”

The car pulled to a stop and Grantaire glanced outside the window, surprised to find that they had arrived at his house. Montparnasse sat back and smirked at him. “Well, I’ll give you the afternoon to think it over. Tonight, I have a few items I need to, ah,  _repossess_ , shall we say, from R Industries. We can discuss how we proceed there.”

He slipped out of his side of the car and Grantaire stared after him, trembling with a variety of emotions. The driver opened Grantaire’s car door and looked down at him, concerned. “Sir? We’ve arrived.”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, automatically. “Take my things to my bedroom.” As if in a daze, he wandered into the house and headed directly towards the bar, glad as always that his staff knew to keep it well-stocked. He had a lot that he needed to think about, and the whiskey…well, the whiskey would help the thinking go down smoother.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.

Unfortunately for Grantaire, the whiskey seemed to do the opposite of helping, burning far too smoothly as it went down and only encouraging him to continue drinking. And drinking. And drinking.

Which was why by the time he finally got a text message from Enjolras — a simple, one line message (not that Grantaire expected much more from a man who had just learned to text) that said, “ _Missing you already. E_ ” — Grantaire had drained most of the bottle of whiskey behind the bar, which was a shame, since it was a rare bottle of Knappogue Castle 1951.

And getting said text message only served to make Grantaire — who hadn’t been spending as much time thinking as brooding, really — feel even worse, because everything that Montparnasse had said, every taunt that he had made, especially regarding Enjolras, was exactly true. Hearing Montparnasse say out loud all of Grantaire’s darkest fears only reinforced them and made them twenty times more potent.

Grantaire may be Iron Man, may be a genius billionaire (former) playboy philanthropist with a self-invented metal suit and an arc reactor embedded in his chest, may even be a superhero, if one used the term broadly, but his biggest fear was not losing all of that: it was losing Enjolras.

He grew up wanting to be an inventor, wanting to be just like his father and invent things for the government, and grew up simultaneously hearing stories about Captain France and how he was the embodiment of all things good. And yeah, Grantaire had been good with his hands and had patented his first invention by his tenth birthday, but it was pretty damn clear by his thirteenth birthday that the way of the righteous and the good was not really going to be Grantaire’s path.

This was only exacerbated by his father’s death and Grantaire’s takeover of R Industries, where all of his illusions about the good that his family’s company was doing was shattered. Instead, he had to watch, hands tied by the Board of Directors trying to protect their investments at home and abroad, as weapons systems he had invented from the ground up were mass-produced and sold to the highest bidder, used in fights ranging from small domestic skirmishes to massive international affairs. Every single person killed by one of R Industries’ weapons…Grantaire had their blood on his hands.

So he had hidden his guilt and his unease and his feelings of worthlessness in booze and sleeping around, making the headlines and gossip pages for his wild ways. And he had allowed his company to continue producing weapons of mass murder while he raked in billions of dollars.

But then Grantaire had been captured, been tortured, been forced to design a mega-weapon for a very, very bad group of people. And instead he had invented the Iron Man suit.

For the first time, Grantaire saw that his weapons didn’t have to fall into the wrong hands, that he could do more, could  _be_  more. And he started the long and arduous process of turning R Industries around, of getting them out of illicit arms deals and more towards sustainable, renewable resources and smart technologies.

And not even a year later, S.H.I.E.L.D. had announced that they had found and resurrected Captain France, and wanted Grantaire’s help in redesigning his suit and equipment.

It came back, as it always seemed to for Grantaire, to Enjolras. In him, he was given a reason to invent again, to invent different kinds of weapons, weapons meant for spreading peace, not starting wars. And in Enjolras, Grantaire found not just a reason to invent but a reason to be a better person.

He had tried to be a better person, he really had. It had been  _years_  since the last time Grantaire had wound up in the gossip columns (well, except for when he and Enjolras announced that were dating, but that actually became front page news, not relegated to just the gossip headlines), and he had even managed to curb his drinking in some regards.

All because of Enjolras, and because he had found his own purpose in the Iron Man suit.

And now, it seemed, not even that was sacred.

If Montparnasse made good on his threat to build new Iron Man suits and sell them to whomever was willing to buy, the one thing that Grantaire had invented for good would be twisted beyond repair. And if he explained in detail to the world just what Grantaire was culpable of, the one good thing in Grantaire’s life, his relationship with Enjolras, would be irrevocably ruined.

He had spent far too many hours listening to Enjolras, fiery and fierce and righteous, talking about all the things that had gone wrong in the world while he was out of commission, and the private military contractors were one of his biggest complaints. Granted, Grantaire had spent just as many hours arguing with Enjolras, but that was mostly because he loved to piss Enjolras off.

But this, all of Grantaire’s darkest secrets laid bare for Enjolras to see, that wasn’t just going to piss Enjolras off. How could Enjolras, the symbol for good, the symbol for moving beyond war and instead into peacekeeping, the symbol of justice and righteousness, someone who had never killed an innocent person, someone whose ledger had no red in it whatsoever, how could he possibly understand Grantaire and where he had come from and everything that he had done? How could he look at Grantaire the same way, hold him in his arms the same way, kiss him the same way, knowing that the man in his arms was a murderer?

How could he love Grantaire, after all of that?

Which meant that Grantaire  _had_  to stop Montparnasse, if just to preserve the best thing in his life.

But everytime Grantaire thought about stopping Montparnasse, his stomach twisted with guilt at Montparnasse’s words — “ _It eats you up inside thinking of all the innocent people whose deaths you’re responsible for_ ” — knowing that it was true, and he took another gulp of booze, trying to drown the guilt and refocus on what he was going to do.

Yet though he was Iron Man, that didn’t actually mean that he had iron organs, and his poor liver could only do so much to keep up with his attempts to drown his rampaging guilt, and by the time he realized he should be leaving for R Industries to meet up with Montparnasse, to give him his answer, he was far drunker than he realized, far drunker than he had been in awhile, and he staggered to his feet, calling, “JARVIS!”

JARVIS’s smooth voice was tinged with concern as he asked, “Sir, shall I have someone pull a car around for you.”

Grantaire waved his hand and almost fell over. “No need,” he grunted. “Get my suit ready to fly.”

There was a brief moment of hesitation before JARVIS said, “Sir, I am obligated to remind you that while no laws exist to restrict flying while intoxicated in the Iron Man suit, that does not mean that it’s a good idea. The chances of crashing while intoxicated are—”

“JARVIS,” Grantaire interrupted, holding himself up against the bar and blinking blearily at the wall as if discussing this with a human being rather than a computerized system, “I don’t particularly give a fuck. Bring me my suit.”

Fifteen minutes later, Grantaire was fully suited up in the Iron Man suit, though the swimming computer screen in front of his eyes didn’t seem to be doing much to help him stay upright. But then he was flying through the Los Angeles air, and maybe, just maybe, his head would clear before he arrived at R Industries.

* * *

 

Of course, it didn’t, and instead of the graceful landing Grantaire had planned in front of the main entrance to R Industries, Grantaire instead crashed through the all-glass atrium and landed in a heap. When security ran to help him, Grantaire just managed to get to his feet and wave them off. If Montparnasse was here, if he was stealing something, that would put him… “Research and Development,” he said out loud, and the security guards looked up at him, confused.

Inside his helmet, though, the building’s floor plans were pulled up, the correct area highlighted, and Grantaire engaged his autopilot, assuming that it would safely take him there. And were he sober, it might have — he couldn’t be sure, since he couldn’t really remember how this stupid suit was supposed to work — but whether because of his inability to correct the autopilot or what, instead of flying through the hallways of R Industries, the suit decided to smash through the walls.

The suit itself could withstand far more than that, but Grantaire was too drunk to remember that, and so made a series of particularly undignified noises as the suit careened through the building, leaving destruction and damage in its wake. “JARVIS,” Grantaire managed, “remind me to hire someone to fix that.”

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS replied, his voice crisp. “But perhaps you should wait to see how much damage you cause so I can get you a proper estimate?”

Grantaire couldn’t tell if JARVIS was being sarcastic or not so just grunted in response. Finally, after a journey simultaneously far too long and far too quick, Grantaire arrived at R&D and the suit halted, allowing Grantaire to stop and stand, swaying in place. “Sir,” JARVIS said, sounding concerned, “your body monitors are detecting unusual levels of nausea. Are you—”

“Fine,” Grantaire said, quickly, swallowing down what was trying to come up. “Just a little, uh, flight sickness. I’m fine.”  

He shouldered his way into the main R&D office, and was surprised to find Montparnasse perched on one of the desks closest to the door, looking almost bored. “About time you showed up,” Montparnasse drawled, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit. “I was beginning to think I’d actually get away without you even pretending to put up a fight.”

Grantaire squared his shoulders and stared directly at what he hoped was the correct Montparnasse, since he seemed to be seeing double at the moment. “I’m going to more than pretend,” he growled, taking a fighting stance.

Montparnasse smirked at him. “Uh-uh-uh,” he tsked. “I’m an unarmed civilian. Your sensors should be able to verify that. What would your beloved boyfriend say if he knew you attacked someone who was unarmed?”

Growling, Grantaire snapped, “You may be unarmed, but you’re hardly a citizen.” He raised his arm, hoping that it didn’t tremble, and aimed his blaster at Montparnasse. “And I’m going to have to ask you to stop in the name of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

If anything, Montparnasse’s smirk widened, and he told Grantaire blithely, “Catch me if you can.”

And with that, he was gone, zigzagging towards the far wall. Grantaire tried to aim at him as he fired, but even with autolock trying its hardest, his obvious inebriation only served to blast through the wall rather than hitting Montparnasse, and Grantaire quickly pursued him, pulling up his missiles. “Focus on heat signature,” he croaked as he ran, before commanding, “Launch missiles.”

The missile launched instantly, heading straight toward Montparnasse, who just grinned as he was engulfed in a sudden burst of smoke, which the missile instantly targeted. Grantaire stared at the smoke, waiting to see Montparnasse collapsed on the ground, or something, but instead was rewarded by a low chuckle, and he looked up to see Montparnasse at the far window, very much alive, very much unharmed.

“Too bad, Grantaire,” Montparnasse called, smirking at him as he perched in the window, about to jump out. “Not only am I going to be telling the world about you, but I now have a whole new story to tell, and new blood on your hands to talk about.”

Grantaire stared at Montparnasse, confusion clear, and Montparnasse just winked before dropping out the window. Instead of going after him, Grantaire looked around wildly, instantly spotting exactly what Montparnasse had been referring to in the form of two custodians, who had clearly been in the process of cleaning the room when Montparnasse and Grantaire had burst in, and whose heat signatures the suit had registered when Grantaire had ordered his missiles to fire.

And now, they both lay still against the ground, and Grantaire felt his heart stutter to a stop. “No,” he croaked, running as quickly as he could across the world to kneel next to the still forms. They were both clearly dead, unable to survive a blast from Iron Man’s missiles, and Grantaire cradled them as best as he could, tears streaming down his face. “No, no, no, no…”

He had done this. He had killed them.

He was as guilty as Montparnasse had always said. And Enjolras was never going to be able to love him again.

And that was how the security guards and police found him, when they burst into the room not even ten minutes later — sobbing over the still form of the two people he had just murdered.


	4. Chapter 4

When Grantaire woke up the next morning, the sun shining brightly into his California home, for one blissful moment as he stared out at the Pacific, he forgot everything that had happened the previous day. But then he said, “JARVIS, turn on the news,” and as soon as he did, everything came flooding back.

On the television, the news anchor was saying in a grim tone, “What appears to be the return of head of R Industries Grantaire’s old antics has taken a tragic turn. Grantaire — known by the moniker ‘Iron Man’ for the metal suit he wears as a part of the Avengers Initiative — is the President and CEO of R Industries, and was responsible for bringing the company out of the weapons industry, but today, he appears to be responsible for at least two deaths.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, listening numbly as the anchor continued, detailing the destruction he had wrought at R Industries headquarters last night. The police had been surprisingly nice when taking Grantaire home from the headquarters, going so far as to tell him that they believed it was an accident. But even if Grantaire wasn’t charged with a crime, he had killed two people and almost singlehandedly destroyed his company’s headquarters, and that was something that he had to live with no matter what verdict the court of public opinion passed. His hands clenched convulsively around the bedsheets, curling into fists the more he listened. Then, abruptly, he said, “JARVIS. Are there any messages for me?”

“Sir, you have an email with video attachment from Montparnasse.”

Grantaire shook his head and didn’t open his eyes. “Any messages from the Avengers? Any from—” The name ‘Enjolras’ seemed to stick in his throat, as if he couldn’t bear to say the name outloud.

JARVIS seemed to hesitate before reporting, “You have received a variety of media requests, sir, as well as numerous messages from various people at R Industries, and—”

“JARVIS.”

The word was both a command and a plea, and JARVIS hesitated only slightly more before reporting, his normally dry tone seeming gentler than usual, “There are no messages from anyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. or involved in the the Avengers Initiative.”

Grantaire opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, wondering idly if he had designed JARVIS with an empathy function, or if it was something that the program had picked up through its learning and evolving features. Not that it mattered, since a computer program’s empathy levels could only go so far.

Since he figured it couldn’t possibly make him feel any worse than it currently did, Grantaire ordered, “Show me the video message from Montparnasse.”

After a brief moment, the video flicked to life on the holoscreen, which Grantaire adjusted so that it was positioned in front of him without having to sit up. It started with Montparnasse smirking at the camera, and Grantaire hands curled into fists again.

“Good morning, Grantaire.” Montparnasse’s voice was oily and self-satisfied, and if anything, made Grantaire feel worse. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your night sleeping on the thought of what you’ve done. I’d say that I’ve seen it splashed all over the headlines, but truthfully, I’ve been up all night, working like a busy little bee to get what I needed to done. And I am very,  _very_  excited to show you what I’ve done.”

He stepped away from the camera and gestured dramatically behind him. For a moment, Grantaire had to resist the urge to roll his eyes, but then the speck in the distance of the screen flew to the foreground, and Grantaire’s mouth went dry. There, on the screen, was an almost perfect replica of the Iron Man suit. Not the latest mach, to be sure — Grantaire was constantly tweaking his design, almost obsessively, which Courfeyrac liked to make fun of him for, but hey, they couldn’t  _all_  be mutants — but one of the more recent ones. In fact, the one whose blueprints Grantaire had most recently filed…in the R Industries database, which would only be accessible through the mainframe.

And suddenly Grantaire realized what Montparnasse had broken into R Industries to steal.

Montparnasse smirked at the camera. “I’m assuming you’ve recognized the design. I made a few changes, of course, mostly in color, and added some weapons, because we can’t all draw on the power of our heart, like some kind of reject Captain Planet superhero.” Grantaire immediately raised his hand to the arc reactor embedded in his chest, touching it with trembling fingers. “And as you can see, flight powers are fully functional. And if you’ll permit me a slight experiment, I’ll show that the other capabilities are fully functional as well.”

He gestured, and the suit instantly took off, aiming at a pile of rubble in background, instantly destroying it with a combination of missiles and guided lasers. Grantaire couldn’t help but gasp at the sight, at the blatant destruction, which, produced large scale…could be catastrophic.

Stepping back into the frame, Montparnasse told Grantaire triumphantly, “As you can see, the operational capacity of my suit is at full strength, and my team is mass-producing this suit as we speak. By the end of the week at the latest, I will have an army of Iron Mans to sell to the highest bidder, and what will you have, a Hulk?” Montparnasse leaned in, his smirk turning into a sneer as he taunted, “But where are your Avengers now, Grantaire? They haven’t barged in here to stop me. Hell, they weren’t even able to stop  _you_. I wonder what Captain France’s face will look like when he’s battling 100 versions of his boyfriend at the same time.”

Montparnasse took a step back, and the suit landed behind him, crossing its arm in front of its chest, and Montparnasse told Grantaire, “I look forward to seeing what you try to do to stop me. If you manage to try anything in the midst of your company collapsing and the impending breakup with your perfect boyfriend.”

With that, the video ended, and Grantaire stared dead ahead, unable to form words or even coherent thoughts at what he had just seen. He had to tell…someone. Enjolras, maybe, or one of the other Avengers. They had to know…

They had to know that Montparnasse was going to be acting just like how Grantaire acted last night.

That thought hit Grantaire in the stomach like a punch, and he sat up, gripping his hair with both hands. Through clenched teeth, he told JARVIS, “Call…call him.”

“Sir—?”

“Call Captain France.”

JARVIS didn’t respond but a moment later Grantaire could hear Enjolras’s phone ring once before going straight to voicemail, the cool female voice saying, “You have tried to reach—” The recording changed smoothly into Enjolras’s voice, sounding harried. “Grantaire, I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.” In the background, Grantaire could be heard laughing too hard to help while Enjolras said, “Am I supposed to just say my name? Is that it? Well, my name is—”

The recording cut him off at that point, switching back to the computerized voice telling Grantaire that Enjolras was unavailable, and Grantaire’s eyes squeezed shut, tears pricking at the corners from the memory of that day, just one of many in their relationship, and one that would most likely never happen again. Grantaire couldn’t imagine that Enjolras would ever feel comfortable enough around him again to sit there naked, trying to record his voicemail message, Grantaire’s arms wrapped around him from behind.

Enjolras would never feel that comfortable with a murderer.

And the fact that he wasn’t even taking Grantaire’s phone calls, wasn’t even waiting for an explanation for what had happened, only confirmed that.

Well, if Montparnasse’s prediction about his relationship was going to come true, why wouldn’t everything else?

Which was why, not even an hour later, Grantaire stood behind a podium in front of the broken atrium at R Industries, looking directly into the camera as he announced in a shaky voice, “In light of my actions, I have decided to resign as President and CEO of R Industries, effective immediately. Whatever good I have done for this company in recent years is tainted now, and I would not see its future compromised because of my…because of what I have done. I take full and complete responsibility for my actions, and will do everything within my power to ensure that nothing like this happens again.”

As soon as Grantaire finished speaking, reporters were shouting questions at him, questions that Grantaire had no intention of answering, until he heard one shout above the rest, “What does this mean for Iron Man?”

Grantaire froze, his face whitening, and looked down for a long moment before answering, “Iron Man is a suit, a suit that cannot be solely worn by me. Until such a time as I am confident that nothing I do will further compromise the integrity of Iron Man, of S.H.I.E.L.D., or of the Avengers Initiative, I will not be wearing the Iron Man suit or taking part of any activities as Iron Man.”

With that said, he turned and walked away from the podium, heading directly to his car, trying to ignore the feeling that he was walking away from the only good thing that he had ever done by resigning.

* * *

 

When he arrived back at his house, his first stop was the bar, where he didn’t even bother with a glass, drinking whiskey directly from the bottle as if it was water. Then, when he had successfully downed enough alcohol to be able to ignore the fact that the only thing on any channel on TV was the replay of his resignation at the press conference that morning, Grantaire made his way down to his lab in the basement, where he sat on his stool and stared at his — at  _the_  — Iron Man suit.

In what world did he think that he could be a superhero?

Heroes weren’t flawed, not like he was. Heroes were good and smart and genuine, everything that Enjolras was, and everything that Grantaire was not. Why did he let himself think that he could try to be that? He really shouldn’t be surprised that everything had blown up in his face.

“JARVIS,” he started, surprised that he was slurring already, surprised that he had had that much to drink, since he didn’t seem to remember, though he probably shouldn’t be surprised. He was worthless, after all, a worthless drunk who was good for nothing but destruction. “JARVIS, does this mach have a self-destruct function?”

JARVIS’s voice was smooth as he replied, “No, after the difficulty with the mach 36, you stopped including a self-destruct capability in the suit.”

Grantaire tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Remind me to do that the next time I get the stupid idea to build a stupid fucking machine of death.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “So if I can’t destroy it, I have to do something to get rid of it.”

He pursed his lips and stared at the suit for another ten minutes, actually snapping his fingers when he figured it out — which more than anything showed how drunk he was. “Disassemble the mach and return it to its travel case.”

Instantly, the internal mechanisms of the lab began disassembling the suit, and Grantaire allowed himself to be momentarily grateful that he had set all this up so that he literally had to do nothing but watch. Well, watch and keep drinking from his second bottle of whiskey.

When the suit was completely put away, Grantaire stood and shuffled over to the case, grabbing the key that he wore on a chain around his neck along with Enjolras’s original dog tags. When his fingers brushed the smooth metal of the dog tags, Grantaire froze, closing his eyes as he tugged the chain off, looking down at the dog tags that belonged to the best man that Grantaire had ever known. He had no right to wear them now, had honestly had never had a right to wear them in the first place.

So he slipped them into the case before closing the lid, locking it with the key, a special, microchipped key of Grantaire’s own invention, the only key of its kind in existence. Then he took the key and crossed to his work table, setting it down and grabbing a hand-held laser gun that he had invented for fun one summer.

He took five steps away from the table and turned back to look at the key. JARVIS’s voice was slightly concerned as he said, “Sir, I feel duty-bound to tell you that the lock on the mach case is designed to be impermeable if it were intercepted. If you destroy that key, there is no way to make a duplicate and no way to get into the case.”

Grantaire aimed the laser at the key and told JARVIS, “I know that. I have no desire to open the mach case. I have no desire to put that suit on ever again.” He paused and took a deep breath before continuing, in a voice that only trembled slightly, “From now on, I’m not Iron Man anymore. I’m just Grantaire.”

Without waiting to hear JARVIS’s reply, Grantaire squeezed the trigger on the laser, watching as the key disintegrated into millions of pieces. Then he set the laser down on his workshop table, picked up the half-full bottle of whiskey, and headed slowly up the stairs towards his bedroom, where if there was any justice in the world, he could drink himself to death without any interruptions whatsoever.


	5. Chapter 5

Of course, there was no justice in the world, and Grantaire woke up sometime way too goddamn early the next morning to JARVIS warning him, “Sir, my security features have been overridden—” before a loud voice said, “Get the hell out of bed and tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing.”

Grantaire groaned loudly and rolled over, wondering if his head was going to spontaneously combust before or after his stomach decided to empty itself of its contents. “Why are you here?”

“Someone who isn’t one of the Avengers had to come tell you what a giant mistake you’re making, and Valjean thought if he sent Cosette, she might kill you.”

Sighing heavily, Grantaire managed to half-sit up and snap at JARVIS, “Close the fucking blinds, would you?” Once the sun stopped making Grantaire feel like his eyes were going to bleed, he managed to squint across the room and ask hoarsely, “So what, am I meant to assume that you’re not going to kill me, Agent Pontmercy?”

Marius sighed and took off his sunglasses, tucking them into the breast pocket of his crisp, nondescript black suit (Grantaire privately thought that Marius had started dressing a hell of a lot better since he started dating Cosette, though whether that was because of his job with S.H.I.E.L.D. or just because Cosette actually picked out his clothes for him, he didn’t know). “I have been instructed by Director Valjean not to kill you, but rather to sternly demand an explanation for your behavior the past few days.”

“An explanation for  _my_  behavior?” Grantaire asked, a hysterical laugh sticking his throat almost to the point of choking on it as he stared at Marius. “I’m the one who was confronted by a psychopath who facilitated my murdering two innocent civilians, the one who hasn’t heard a word from S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers or — fuck — my  _boyfriend_  until you showed up today, and I’m the one who needs to give an explanation for my behavior?”

Surprisingly, Marius actually looked slightly chagrined, glancing away from Grantaire as he muttered, “The Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. have been ordered to maintain radio silence until we get this all figured out and squared away.”

Grantaire swallowed hard, because he had suspected as much — had known that this was standard S.H.I.E.L.D. operating procedure in the event that things went wrong and one of the Avengers (usually either Grantaire or Jehan, though Bahorel had a talent for accidentally destroying small towns in New Mexico) did something they needed to fix with a team of S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives and an excellent PR team — but it didn’t make it sting any less, especially since he had specifically given Enjolras an untraceable cell phone so that they could still communicate even if all official S.H.I.E.L.D. communications were cut off, and apparently, Enjolras just didn’t want to contact him, which…well, wasn’t a surprise, no matter how much it hurt. He didn’t voice any of these particularly rambling thoughts, though, instead asking stiffly, “Then why are you here?”

“I’m not an Avenger,” Marius said simply. “And while I work for S.H.I.E.L.D., I also work for Director Valjean, and he asked me to come.”

“What, Daddy-in-law asks you to come, and you roll over and ask how high?” Grantaire sniped, though it was without much real venom in his voice (he was too hungover to work up the necessary energy for venomous speech).

Marius, however, was occasionally an easy target, and he looked slightly hurt by what Grantaire said. “He isn’t my father-in-law yet, and besides, I’m not just here because of him. I’m also here because Enjolras asked me to come.”

Grantaire sat straight up, fully awake and staring at Marius with wide eyes. “He…he asked you to come?” he asked, hating how desperate he sounded but not caring enough in that moment.

Nodding, Marius told him, something in his tone a little reverent, which given Marius’s feelings about Captain France, wasn’t really surprising, “Yeah. He told me to tell you not to jeopardize the mission.”

“Jeopardize…the mission?” Grantaire repeated hollowly. “That’s…that’s all he told you to tell me? Nothing more? Nothing, I don’t know, important? Or that would make sense?”

Marius hesitated, seeming to realize that something wasn’t quite right. “He…he said you would know what he meant.”

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh, though there was nothing humorous about the situation. “Oh, is that what he told you? That I would magically know what he was talking about? Well, sorry, some of us are just regular geniuses, not the kind with overdeveloped super serum-induced brains, and I don’t fucking  _speak_  Captain France.”

If Marius had been perturbed by Grantaire before, he was even more now, disgruntled by what Grantaire was saying about Enjolras. “Well, he probably has a lot on his mind,” Marius pointed out, though his tone was sharp. “What with trying to deal with what you did.”

“Spare me,” Grantaire said, drawing his knees up to his chest and looking away. “Captain France doesn’t give a flying fuck what I did. Just another in a long line of complete and utter drunken disappointments. No wonder he told me not to jeopardize the mission — he’s tired of having to clean up after me.”

Now Marius looked positively alarmed. “I…I’m sure that’s not true,” he stammered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Enjolras  _loves_  you.”

Grantaire snorted. “Loves me enough to give me no other message besides not to continue fucking things up. Loves me enough to not even bother telling me this himself, when he has a multitude of means for contacting me. Loves me even though I’m a drunken fuck up and a murderer. Yeah, that sounds like Captain France all right.” Marius made a dissenting squeak, and Grantaire glared at him. “You know Captain France better than anyone. Don’t tell me you disagree.”

“I  _do_  know Captain France better than anyone,” Marius agreed quietly. “I’ve studied everything about him since I was a kid. I wanted to grow up to be just like him. But that was the old Captain France, a hero designed to fight Nazis, to reclaim his sovereign homeland. Times have changed — so has he.” He hesitated for a moment before he added, “And besides, no matter how well I know Captain France, no one knows  _Enjolras_  better than you do.”

“Which is why I know how disgusted he would be with me right now,” Grantaire countered.

Marius frowned at him. “I don’t think that’s true,” he said firmly. “I think you’re projecting how you’re feeling about yourself onto Enjolras. And I don’t think that’s fair — to him, or to you. Besides, even if he didn’t send you the message that you wanted to hear, I can tell you that he’s definitely worried about you. Practically out of his mind with worry. You should have heard the shouting match he had with Valjean after he forbid him from coming to see you.”

For a moment, Grantaire seemed to perk up, but just as quickly, it faded. “Sure, because Enjolras wanted to come in person to end things with me,” he said dully. “He didn’t want to leave it for S.H.I.E.L.D. to take care of. He…he has honor like that. He is Captain France, after all.”

Marius made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “I somehow doubt Enjolras would be  _that_  angry at Valjean if he just wanted to break up with you. He even yelled at Feuilly, and you  _know_  that’s not like him. He’s _worried_  about you, we all are — about what happened and also what you’re going through. We saw your resignation on TV, and you…you’re a mess, Grantaire.” When Grantaire just shrugged, Marius repeated, “He’s worried about you.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be,” Grantaire said, getting out of bed to slump towards his dresser, rummaging around in the top drawer. “I’m not worth it.”

“Of course you are,” Marius said, a little impatiently. “You’re Iron Man, for christ’s sake.”

Grantaire shook his head. “No. I’m not. Not anymore. I locked the suit up, and I’m done with it. I’m done with the Avengers, I’m done with S.H.I.E.L.D. I’m not a superhero — I never was.”

“Grantaire—” Marius started, though he stopped when Grantaire turned to look over at him, his expression almost empty. After a long moment, Marius asked quietly, “What happened to you, Grantaire? What really happened? What’s going on to make you feel like this, to make you have done this?”

Grantaire managed a small half-smile as he found was he was looking for: an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels, and he turned to face Marius, his expression blank. “I finally looked in the mirror and realized who was staring back at me. And you can tell that to Enjolras, to S.H.I.E.L.D., to anyone who cares to know.”

With that said, he opened the bottle of whiskey and took a swig directly from the bottle before turning and walking away, leaving Marius staring after him.


	6. Chapter 6

When next Grantaire gained consciousness, there was no agent from S.H.I.E.L.D. standing over his bed, ready to berate him for his life choices — like he somehow needed reminding of the fact that he had fucked up, had always  _been_  a fuck up — and the world still lacked any semblance of justice, since the first thing Grantaire did was fall off of the couch and then scramble towards the bathroom before he threw up all over his carpet. Once he had finished emptying his stomach of his contents — alcohol, just alcohol, he hadn’t eaten since…God, he didn’t even know when, but it wasn’t like he  _needed_  food at the moment, content to subsist on alcohol and self-loathing — Grantaire gripped the sides of the bathroom sink and stared up at himself in the mirror.

He could hardly be considered a fine specimen of man most days — it was amazing what hiring a stylist could do when he had to appear on camera or in public — but he looked even worse than normal, wan and disheveled, his three-days’ worth of stubble patchy, the rings around his eyes as dark as bruises. He looked equal parts paunchy and too-thin, but most of all…he just looked  _sad_.

And he couldn’t help but think, as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, that every word he had said to Marius was true: he had realized what he was looking at in the mirror, and he hated himself for it.

The damage he had wrought…well, there was no point rehashing that over again. It wasn’t as if he needed to go over all the things that still haunted his nightmares when he wasn’t tamping them down with booze.

Which really only meant that he should continue drinking, since his liver hadn’t given up on him yet, despite all of his best efforts. He took one last look at himself, splashed some cold water on his face, and wandered into the living room, and to the bar there.

He had just about lost his taste for whiskey, so settled for vodka, drinking straight from the bottle as he collapsed on the couch. He thought about turning on the TV, but realized that if there was any news about himself, he desperately didn’t want to see it. He considered asking JARVIS if there were any news messages from the Avengers, but…well, there wasn’t going to be, he was sure of that, and the confirmation would only break his heart even further.

Especially if there was still no message from…Captain France.

Instead, he leaned his head back against the couch and drank more, closing his eyes and contemplating his own futility, though he was interrupted by JARVIS. “Sir, you asked me to find everything on Montparnasse.”

Grantaire sighed and shook his head, not bothering to sit up. “Yeah, I did, but I don’t really think it matters anymore. There’s not really anything I can  _do_  anymore.”

“Respectfully, sir, I disagree about it mattering, since it also involves R Industries, and S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Rolling over onto his side, Grantaire commanded with a sigh, “Put it up on the screen.” Instantly, images appeared, bank statements and files and documents, more than Grantaire could even process in one go, but he definitely got the gist of it. “Holy fuck,” he breathed, sitting up. “But that’s…that’s…”

“It does appear that Montparnasse has been receiving payment from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Research and Development arm for over a year now,” JARVIS reported dryly. “And of course, one of the biggest funders of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s R&D department is—”

“R Industries,” Grantaire finished, his voice almost hollow. “My own fucking company is funding the man who is hell-bent on destroying me, and the organization I work for is facilitating it.”

He leaned forward, his hands curling into fists against his legs, his eyes staring unblinkingly at the screen in front of him. Two days ago, a day ago, hell, even an hour ago, this knowledge would have crushed him, sent him spinning further into the hole of despair that he had mostly dug for himself. But here, now, staring at the evidence that he had been betrayed, betrayed by his company, betrayed by the organization his own father had founded, he didn’t despair.

Grantaire got angry.

He had done bad things, terrible things, even, whether directly or by being complicit in the actions of his company, and he wouldn’t try to excuse that. But what he had forgotten, in his grief, in his despair, in the darkest parts of himself that sought to blot out all the light, was the  _good_  that he had done, the good he had done for R Industries, and the good he had done as Iron Man.

He would never attain Captain France levels of goodness, wouldn’t want to, either, since that was a job best left to — even now he couldn’t think of Enjolras without feeling a hollow pain in his chest. But that was never his goal, to be that good. He had too much darkness in him to even consider such a thing.

But what he had done — what he had tried to do — was to fight the darkness in himself just the same as he had fought for the freedom of the people of Earth, through S.H.I.E.L.D., which was supposed to be the organization’s exact purpose. Instead, S.H.I.E.L.D. was funding a man hell-bent on destroying whatever good Grantaire had managed to bring about in the world, while Grantaire lost himself to the darkness inside of him.

Which come to think of it, had maybe been Montparnasse’s plan all along.

Grantaire ground his teeth together, his hands clenching and unclenching convulsively. Had he really been that stupid? Had he really played directly into Montparnasse’s hands, and was he really that predictable? How fucking stupid of him to—

No.

Grantaire couldn’t let himself slip back into those thoughts, could already feel the whirlpool of despair that still swirled within his gut in and in the recesses of his mind. For once, just for once, he had to put those thoughts aside, had to focus on the good aspects of himself, few though they may be, because if he didn’t, he would let Montparnasse win.

And no matter what Grantaire was or wasn’t, no matter the darkness inside of him or the lingering traces of goodness, Grantaire was not a loser, and he would not roll over and admit defeat just because he was a self-loathing asshole with a drinking problem. Before, he had thought that was all he had, because he assumed Montparnasse had taken everything from him: his suit design, his company, and his illusion of being worthwhile.

Now he found out that he had also lost the organization he had been fighting for; Montparnasse had taken that away, too, and the world needed to know about that. Enj—the Avengers needed to know about that. He had lost Captain France, most likely, anyway.

But Enjolras had once asked him, in one of their more heated arguments, “Big man in a suit of armor — take that off and what are you?”

Grantaire’s response had been glib at the time, but now, now he found himself exactly in that position, and his pithy reply — “Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist” — was only one quarter correct. Montparnasse had taken his company, had taken his boyfriend (or Grantaire had lost him, whatever the case may be), had even taken the public perception of Iron Man as a force of good. But what he hadn’t taken, what he could never take, was Grantaire’s mind.

And for all its sharp edges and hidden darkness, for its vast knowledge of puns and musical theatre lyrics, for its meticulous cataloguing of every detail pertaining to Enjolras ( _he still folds his clothes like he’s in the war, he still has nightmares and the only thing that calms him is holding him tightly, he once tried to shave his chest and the results were hilarious_ ), Grantaire might still have it in him to pull one more genius-level miracle out of his ass.

He had built the original Iron Man suit in the most hellish of conditions with little more than his own ingenuity. Here, in his mansion, surrounded by the robots he had built from scratch, he could build another suit, a better suit, a suit unlike any that Montparnasse or the world had seen. And if he had to go down in a blaze fighting his own creations just to try to save his friends and bring justice to the organization they were sworn to defend, well, at least he’d look damn good while doing it.

Grantaire sat up and cracked his knuckles. “JARVIS, boot up all the computers in my workshop,” he said, his voice growing in confidence as he talked. “Whip up some kind of nutrient-rich smoothie or some shit for me to drink while I work, something to flush all of this out of my system. And for fuck’s sake, blast some AC/DC before I lose my fucking mind.”

The beginning notes of “Thunderstruck” instantly began playing from all the hidden speakers in the room, and Grantaire rolled his shoulders back and stood, taking the stairs down to his workshop two at a time. He settled into the chair and instantly pulled up the most recent design specs for the Iron Man suit, beginning to remove as much as he could. He was starting with a blank slate, and building from there.

He was going to make Montparnasse regret that he couldn’t take Grantaire’s brain away from him. That, and that he hadn’t thought to take Grantaire’s robots away from him, either.

“Come on, Dum-E,” Grantaire commanded, snapping his fingers, as the robot quickly moved to Grantaire’s side. “We’ve got work to do.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If all goes according to plan, this will have two more chapters.

It was very early in the morning when Grantaire finally sat back in his chair, brushing Dum-E’s mechanical arm away as he did. It wasn’t necessarily as polished as the last mark (it was incredible what having an automated assembly could do to make things look pretty), but it was functional, and if he had to say so himself, it was badass.

He had done some upgrades, of course; the inventor in him couldn’t help but tinker with even the smallest facet of the suit, and he was confident beyond any kind of doubt that this suit could literally blow his old suit out of the water. Of course, the problem was that he wasn’t just facing one of his old suits; he would be facing a number of them.

But that was a problem for, well, at  _least_  an hour from now.

Grantaire rolled his head from side to side, cracking his neck, and eyed the suit with a triumphant smile as he asked JARVIS, “JARVIS, how long will it take to fire the suit up?”

“Approximately twenty minutes to run through all the tests, sir, but I would like to remind you that it is three o’clock in the morning, and that you may want to wait at least a few hours before your grand showdown. If only for cinematic value.”

JARVIS’s wry mechanical voice was almost affectionate, like a proud father, and Grantaire snorted. “Wow, it’s almost like you’re not eager for me to go get myself killed.”

JARVIS reasoned, “If you weren’t here, who would annoy me at all hours of the day?”

“Seriously, stop it, you’re going to make me blush with how much you care.” Grantaire sighed and ran a tired hand across his face, suddenly exhausted. “Very well, I suppose that I can afford a few hours of sleep before I go to face my doom.”

“Always the optimist, sir. I’ll set the espresso machine to go off in four hours’ time so that you can get some sleep.”

Grantaire stood up and cracked his back. “Yes, dear.” He paused, hesitating for a moment before asking, trying not to sound as desperate as he suddenly felt, “Have you received any messages from…”

He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence, but JARVIS understood what Grantaire meant. “There have not been any messages from anyone of importance.”

Though Grantaire swallowed hard and nodded, he felt it like another blow. Granted, it was a softened blow at this point; he hadn’t expected to hear from Enjolras, had assumed that if Enjolras was going to call or text or email or whatever, he would have done it a long,  _long_  time ago. And while Grantaire missed Enjolras as acutely as he missed the safety and security that had come with his life before any of this happened, while he wished that Enjolras was here to either wrap him in his arms or kick him in the ass, it was almost better that he wasn’t here.

Grantaire didn’t want to have to explain any of this to Enjolras, he mused as he traipsed up the stairs. He didn’t want to have to explain his past, and he certainly didn’t want to have to explain what he was about to do.

The possibilities of Enjolras’s feelings toward what Grantaire intended were endless, really. On the one hand, what did Enjolras value more than bravery, and what possibly could be braver than going out on his own to face down Montparnasse, like an old time sheriff going to face against the bandit?

And was it not also a fight about honor, fighting to restore what measly scraps of honor Grantaire somehow still retained, if not in his own name, than in his “superhero” persona? Enjolras was all about honor, and how could he not be, the champion of liberty and equality? So surely on that level he too would empathize with the fight Grantaire was about to undertake.

But on the other hand…on the other hand, Grantaire could just  _see_  the wrinkles on Enjolras’s perfect, flawless forehead, could  _see_  his mouth close in that tight line as his nostrils flared when he found out what Grantaire was planning, not because it wasn’t noble or brave or any of those things, but because Enjolras would think it was stupid.

Because the fact of the matter was, Grantaire didn’t really intend to come back from this mission alive.

And as he sank onto his bed to get what few hours of sleep he could, the question of whether Enjolras would mourn his death was almost enough to keep him awake. Almost.

* * *

 

Far too soon, JARVIS’s smooth voice interrupted what had been a surprisingly dreamless sleep to tell Grantaire, “Sir, as much as I hate to do this, you will hate me more if I do not wake you.”

Grantaire groaned and rolled over to press his face in his pillow before telling JARVIS in a muffled voice, “I still fucking hate you.”

“That’s the spirit, sir. Will you be wanting breakfast with your coffee?”

Sighing, Grantaire pushed himself into a sitting position. “Probably not. Gotta watch my girlish figure, after all.” In truth, he didn’t think that he could eat - as resolved as he was mentally to go through with this plan, his stomach appeared to not be in favor, and he didn’t want to risk it. Instead, he told JARVIS, “Fire up the suit and run it through its paces. I want to be ready to go as soon as I can.”

As he padded downstairs to grab the coffee that JARVIS had prepared for him, JARVIS asked, almost curious, “Do you know where to find Montparnasse?”

“R Industries has some holdings about fifty miles north of the city,” Grantaire said grimly, considering the property. “It’s mostly old warehouses and abandoned manufacturing, but if Montparnasse is being funneled money through R Industries, that’s the best place that I can think of.”

JARVIS asked, “And if he’s not there?”

Grantaire shrugged and drained his espresso shot. “He’ll be there,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt. “It’s my big cinematic showdown, remember? The villain is always where you’d think he’d be.”

It was a hollow statement, but it was all he was working with as he went into his workshop to suit up. He had drunkenly dismantled most of the automatic processes earlier in the week for assembling the suit so he had to do some of it by hand (Dum-E and Butterfingers tried to help, but, well…try was the operative phrase).

Finally, though, Grantaire stood in his workshop, fully suited up, as ready as he would ever be to take on Montparnasse once and for all. “Sir…” For the first time that morning, JARVIS sounded hesitant. “Do you want me to try Enjolras’s cell phone for you to…perhaps talk to him?” Though JARVIS did not say the words ‘one last time’, Grantaire nonetheless realized that was what he was saying.

Grantaire nodded and blinked against the tears that pricked unexpectedly in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, that’s probably not a bad idea. Try him on his cell.”

In only a few short seconds, the phone was ringing in Grantaire’s ear, and he closed his eyes, simultaneously praying that Enjolras picked up and at the same time didn’t. Soon enough, the call went through to voicemail, and Grantaire let out a shaky breath. This was undoubtedly the last time he would hear Enjolras’s voice in his ear, and he savored those few seconds, savored the memory of better times, even if they were a flawed memory now. Then, when the beep sounded, Grantaire said hoarsely, “Hey — it’s me. I, uh, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. For everything. And…whatever else happens, just know…” Here Grantaire’s voice broke. “Just know that I love you.”

JARVIS wisely hung up the phone at that time, knowing, perhaps, that Grantaire wasn’t going to be able to go on after that. He let Grantaire recover himself in silence for a few moments before asking, “Are you ready, sir?”

Grantaire nodded jerkily and took a shaky breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He held his hands out to his sides, feeling the burners fire up, lifting him off the ground. After another deep breath, he leaned forward and flew toward the exit, ready to finally just be done.

* * *

 

Cinematic or otherwise, Montparnasse was exactly where Grantaire suspected, confirmed not only by heat signatures, but by a surprising array of Iron Man suits outside one of the warehouses. Grantaire had assumed that Montparnasse had been selling them, just like he had threatened to, but apparently, Montparnasse had been stockpiling the suits instead of selling them off, which…well, kind of changed Grantaire’s game plan, but didn’t really change the end result (in fact, made the end result even more inevitable).

He landed in front of the suits with a thud, louder than necessary, trying to draw Montparnasse’s attention. The ploy worked, and Montparnasse strode outside of the warehouse, smiling. “Ah, Grantaire. How nice of you to join us. I had hoped you’d come to see your work in action.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s going to get that far,” Grantaire said, straightening, aiming directly at Montparnasse, who just smiled at him. “I’ve come here to stop you.”

Montparnasse actually laughed, even if it wasn’t exactly a patented villain cackle. “Good luck with that. As you can see, you’re a little overwhelmed. I’d ask you and what army, since you’re currently facing one.”

Grantaire gazed at the suits coolly. “You call this an army? You’re using an out of date suit, and, what, I should be intimidated by that? You don’t think my suit can possibly take your weaker models on?”

Now Montparnasse smirked. “My plan is flawless,” he announced. “With these suits, I will not only destroy you the way I’ve already destroyed your company and your reputation, but take on the world. And win.”

“Your original plan was perfect,” Grantaire told Montparnasse, almost regretfully. “Truly. If you had done what you threatened to do, sold the suits to the highest bidder, the world would have been in chaos. My friends would have torn themselves apart trying to stop them. But instead, you’ve made the classic villain blunder: you think you can be  _more_  than that.”

Montparnasse grinned at him. “Oh, I  _am_  more than that. I have an army! An army of Iron Man suits, ready to destroy whomever gets in their path. Including you.”

“You may have the Iron Man suits,” Grantaire acknowledging, grinning almost viciously back at him as he added, “But you forget one thing — I  _am_ Iron Man.”

He silently engaged his shoulder-mounted machine guns, aiming straight at Montparnasse, though he wasn’t surprised when a group of suits rose to protect him. In fact, in that one simple action, all of the suits seemed to be engaged, raising weapons of their own, and Grantaire took off, flying up in the air to avoid the numerous missiles suddenly fired in his direction.

“Take evasive action!” he shouted at JARVIS, hoping that he might be able to avoid most of the impact. He was hit at least twice, but JARVIS reported that damage was, thus far anyway, minimal.

Grantaire tried to draw the suits away from Montparnasse, hoping to be able to swoop in and end Montparnasse and this charade before he himself was ended. Of course, his plan failed, and spectacularly. There was just _too many_ of the stupid suits, more than even Grantaire in his wildest thoughts could have hoped to take on and win against. In terms of trying to atone for his sins, he wasn’t sure that getting fired at by this many mechanical suits was really atonement so much as punishment, especially since his evasive actions couldn’t avoid all the hits, and JARVIS kept yelling at him over how much damage he was sustaining.

And of course, as with all cinematic fights, with every battle between good and evil, it got to a tipping point, and that came when a missile met its mark, effectively knocking out Grantaire’s defensive capabilities. “Damage is at 70% sir,” JARVIS reported. “Another direct hit will ground you, possibly permanently, and you’ve lost evasive maneuvers.”

Grantaire nodded, a little numb. This was it — this was the end. This was everything that Grantaire had feared and everything that he had planned for, all in one fell swoop. His only hope was that he could take out as many of the suits as he could before his death.

He took a deep breath and stared down at the approaching suits, JARVIS plotting out the exact course that would take out the most suits on the screen in his helmet. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and whispered — whether out loud or in his head only — “Goodbye, Enjolras.”

Then he dove, shooting from both his hands at the army as well as the various weapons installed across the suit. Using his hands was dangerous — he lost his stabilizers that way, but since he was on a collision course as it was, it wasn’t like it really mattered. As he flew, he crashed into as many suits as he could in addition to shooting them down, aiming for their vulnerabilities, causing them to crash to the ground as it went.

Which was right where he was headed, and all too soon, the ground was rushing up to meet him. Even though he knew it was in vain, he threw up his hands in an attempt to stop what would undoubtedly be a fatal impact with the ground (JARVIS’s voice in his ear was urgently telling him as such, in addition to what little logic Grantaire possessed), but all too soon, he plowed into the ground.

He would lie if he said it didn’t hurt, but miraculously – somehow — he didn’t die. Well, maybe it wasn’t a miracle. Maybe Grantaire just couldn’t even pull off suicide by martyrdom without fucking  _something_  up.

Though JARVIS’s voice was warped — the speakers in Grantaire’s helmet must have been damaged in the collision — Grantaire could still make out what he was saying, and from the sound of it, though the impact hadn’t killed him, the fifty some suits still standing were circling him, and chances were that one of them would. Which meant  _this_  was the end.

So Grantaire had been wrong before. But he really didn’t see how he could get out of this one. And if JARVIS’s analysis was correct, Grantaire didn’t even have time to whisper another goodbye to the love of his life.

But right when Grantaire was about ready to close his eyes and call it a day, the suit nearest Grantaire was struck by a sudden bolt of lightning, and the suits and Grantaire both turned to see Bahorel landing in a whirlwind. The next suit was taken out by an arrow piercing directly through the suit’s facemask, and a third suit was taken out by what looked like a ray of sunshine. And then…then…

Well, then Grantaire would probably have seen Enjolras in all of his glory, throwing his shield emblazoned with “ _Liberté · Égalité · Fraternité_ ”, but unfortunately for Grantaire, one of the rogue suits took a few steps backward and promptly stepped on Grantaire’s helmet, knocking out his viewing screens entirely.

For a long moment, Grantaire just lay on his back, wondering if even after all of the Avengers had somehow shown up, he was still going to meet his end in the mud in a broken suit, which was really no more than he deserved. But then the facemask of Grantaire’s helmet was ripped off by giant green hands, and Prouvaire growled down at him before ambling off to knock two suits together with his bare hands. Grantaire blinked up at Enjolras, who stared down at him, his expression exactly what Grantaire had imagined, down to that line on his forehead that Grantaire longed to kiss, and Enjolras put his hands on his tricolor-clad hips and demanded, “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

And Grantaire just laid his head his head against the ground and laughed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-to-last chapter! The original comics storyline on which this was roughly based had nine issues, so I wanted to aim for nine chapters as a callout to that, and thankfully, the story seems to be going in that direction!

For one brief moment, Grantaire let himself just lie there, every inch of his body hurting, but for the first time in days, his heart  _not_  hurting, because Enjolras was here, Enjolras was with him, and what else could possibly matter? He was interrupted from his reverie by Bossuet slamming into three suits at once like a giant, rocky bowling ball, sending metal parts raining over everyone.

Enjolras knelt instantly next to Grantaire’s side, holding up his shield to block the worst of the debris from hitting them both, and Grantaire just blinked at him. “You’re really here,” Grantaire said, feeling almost giddy.

Though Enjolras spared a brief smile for Grantaire, it was just that — brief — replaced far too quickly with the same worried wrinkle on his brow and his mouth tightening. “I really am here,” he confirmed. “No thanks to you, and the message that you left on my voicemail. I thought I was going to be too late, I thought—”

Whatever Enjolras might have thought was interrupted by Montparnasse, who shouted something indistinguishable, but whatever it was, it was clearly a command of some variety, since every suit in the warehouse and outside of it turned in unison to aim at Enjolras and Grantaire. “Uh, dare I ask how your suit is holding up?” Enjolras asked, glancing around.

Grantaire didn’t need JARVIS to tell him that his suit was not holding up well at all (which was good, since JARVIS was pretty much off-line at that point), and he paled. Luckily, Joly landed next to them both and shouted, “Let the shades of the Seraphim again enfold you!”, activating the Shield of the Seraphim and blocking all three from the sudden volley of lasers, missiles and bullets that launched at them.

“Thanks, Joly,” Grantaire managed, using the temporary shield to try to haul himself to his feet. Enjolras huffed and bent to help him, his grip on Grantaire’s arm surprisingly gentle, even though Grantaire couldn’t really feel any of it through his suit. Once on his feet, Grantaire surveyed the damage both to his suit and to the other suits. “Shield capabilities in my suit are down,” he told Enjolras. “I have some offensive capabilities still, but when it comes to defense, I’m pretty much fucked.”

“Thankfully, your father invented this handy shield which is pretty good at defense,” Enjolras said dryly. “If we get inside the warehouse, we should be able to regroup and devise a better plan.” He gestured to Combeferre, perched on top of one of the warehouses, who nodded and touched his ear, assumedly conveying instructions to the rest of the group. Enjolras turned back to Grantaire, his hand still on Grantaire’s elbow. “You’re fine to move? Nothing’s broken?”

Grantaire shook his head. “No, everything seems to be fine.” He squinted at Enjolras. “You’re really going to protect me with your shield? That’s awfully…what, Superman and Lois Lane of you, isn’t it?”

“If protecting the love of my life with the only thing I can makes me like Superman, then I’ll take it,” Enjolras said shortly, glancing at Joly. “How much longer can you keep this shield up?”

Joly gave Enjolras a look. “It’s not my power that sustains the shield, but the power of the Seraphim,” he started, in the tone of one who had had to explain this numerous times, and Enjolras rolled his eyes as if he had also heard this numerous times before.

“Well, do the Seraphim tell you how much longer they can keep the shield going?” Enjolras asked impatiently.

Joly tilted his head as if considering it. “Probably about a minute more,” he said.

Enjolras looked back at Grantaire. “Are you able to run?”

“Why, are you going to carry me if I’m not?” Grantaire asked, unnecessarily waspish considering how glad he was that Enjolras was here, was talking to him, wasn’t looking at him like he was a waste of the suit that he wore.

Enjolras merely pursed his lips. “I would carry you if you need me to.”

Grantaire looked away, feeling suddenly flushed. “No, I’m fine,” he muttered, twisting to check the damage done to the external panel on the back of his suit.

“Good,” Enjolras said, his tone turning brisk. “Then when I say run, run.”

“Got it, Cap.” Grantaire hesitated, feeling like he had no right to do so, but tentatively stretched his fingers towards Enjolras’s, letting out an audible sigh of relief when Enjolras gave him a tight smile and took his hand.

Enjolras looked back at Joly and, at Joly’s nod, shouted, “Run!” Together, he and Grantaire sprinted across the ground, heading towards the warehouse. They were almost waylaid by a pair of suits that got in their way, but Feuilly shot some quick webs in their direction, effectively immobilizing the suits. “Nice shot!” Enjolras shouted as they ran, and Feuilly saluted before swinging off.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and huffed, “The fact that you find time to flirt while running for our lives…”

Enjolras snorted but didn’t respond, waiting until they were in the warehouse, where he squared up in the center, positioning himself between Combeferre, who was shooting suits as they followed them in, and Feuilly, who was positioned in a corner and slinging webs at any who got too close. Jehan and Bossuet both ran around like human wrecking balls, and Éponine and Cosette were fighting back to back, both armed with two guns each. Courfeyrac and Joly were using their respective powers to herd suits toward Bahorel, who was laughing jovially as he shot thunderbolts and swung his hammer at them.

Once they were in position, Enjolras turned back to Grantaire, his expression hardening. “We still need to talk about what brought you here,” he said firmly. He slammed his shield almost distractedly into one of the approaching suits’ heads, knocking it off in one smooth motion, and asking Grantaire loudly as he did, “Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

"Are we really having this conversation right now?" Grantaire shot back, ducking as a piece of metal flew at his head. "Maybe I was, but is now the best time to be discussing it?"

Enjolras froze, his shield in mid-swing, and despite being half-turned away from him, Grantaire could read his expression clearly, and it made his stomach twist. “Were you…were you  _trying_  to get yourself killed?” Enjolras repeated in a quieter, more desperate tone, and Grantaire winced.

And winced again when one of the suits slammed into Enjolras, knocking him clean off his feet and halfway across the warehouse.

Grantaire sprinted after him, well aware that his own defensive capabilities were impeded, but knowing also that he would do everything within his power to protect Enjolras, even at the cost of his own life. Thankfully, as soon as he reached Enjolras’s side, Enjolras threw his shield up, protecting them both. “Were you trying to kill yourself?” Enjolras asked for a third time.

Grantaire’s protests of how this was not the right time for this conversation died on his lips when he saw the expression on Enjolras’s face. “I didn’t think you guys — the Avengers — and you specifically — wanted anything to do with me,” he muttered. “And you’d have ample reason to. So I figured the only thing I could do was try to stop Montparnasse before he could hurt any of you.” A missile detonated a few feet from them, and Grantaire shouted over the blast, “I  _thought_  you’d think it was, I don’t know, self-sacrificing or something! But I should’ve known S.H.I.E.L.D. would send you after me.”

“You idiot, do you really think we’re only here because S.H.I.E.L.D. ordered us to be?” Enjolras shouted as he deflected another shot with his shield. “S.H.I.E.L.D. forbid us from coming!”

“You aren’t supposed to be here?” Grantaire asked, confused. “But then, why—”

Enjolras growled and threw his shield in an arc around the warehouse, closing the space between him and Grantaire and kissing him fiercely before catching his shield again with one hand. “Idiot,” he repeated, exasperated yet fond.

Grantaire shook his head, though he didn’t loosen his grip on Enjolras. “Well, that might explain why you’re here. What about them?”

“They’re your friends,” Enjolras said simply. “Did you really think they wouldn’t come?”

Shrugging, Grantaire punched a suit over Enjolras’s shoulder. “When I didn’t hear from anyone, I thought…Well, I thought you might…”

“You thought we believed the garbage that was reported about you?” Enjolras asked, incredulous, spinning Grantaire so that he could shield both of them from a concussive blast. “Do you honestly have so little faith in us?”

Grantaire shook his head and ducked as Jehan accidentally chucked a suit in their direction. “It wasn’t about faith in you,” he argued. “It was about, I don’t know, realizing that you’d finally seen me for everything that I really was, and you might hate me because of that.”

Enjolras made a noise like a growl and punched an oncoming suit, clearly acting out his anger. “I knew what you were long before we started dating. This…what Montparnasse was trying to prove…that doesn’t—”

He was not able to finish the thought, since at that point a suit managed to swoop in and grab Grantaire from behind, and at that moment, Enjolras was no longer Enjolras, but was Captain France. He lashed out, his shield spinning around and crashing into suits left and right, taking them down. At the same time, from their opposing corners, the rest of the Avengers closed in on the remaining suits, bringing them down and moving as a unit towards Enjolras and Grantaire.

Finally, the remaining suits were destroyed, and as one, the Avengers turned to Montparnasse, who cowered in the corner, bruised and battered from where he had not been able to escape the carnage wrought on the Iron Man suits he had built.

Enjolras stepped forward, his shield at the ready, his expression a cold mask. “Montparnasse,” he started, aiming his shield directly at Montparnasse’s head. “You have created Iron Man-esque suits aimed at trying to create dischord among the Avengers. You have failed.”

Montparnasse grinned at him. “Ah, yes, the noble Captain France, come to defend his lover. I expected nothing less, though I at least thought you would be more open to logic and to the evidence I presented for why Iron Man should not be considered the hero that he is.”

Enjolras growled and took a step forward, but Grantaire touched Enjolras’s arm gently, pulling him back and stepping forward himself, raising his arm, the small-caliber gun hidden in the metal popping up and aiming at Montparnasse. “Give it up, Montparnasse,” Grantaire said, his tone firm. “You’ve lost. It’s over.”

Montparnasse smirked up at Grantaire, apparently unconcerned with the fact that he was completely surrounded. “Oh, no, Grantaire,” he said. “It’s only just begun.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part! A massive thank you to everyone who's read, kudos'd, commented, etc!! 
> 
> I'm considering continuing this with a sort of prequel/sequel possibly working in a Winter Solider story line, but I leave that up to the fates to see whether I actually do or don't write that.
> 
> Usual disclaimer - please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“Oh no, Grantaire,” Montparnasse said, smirking as if he was the one facing down Grantaire surrounded by his suits, instead of Grantaire facing him down with the rest of the Avengers, “it’s only just begun.”

For a moment, Grantaire faltered, his confidence still shaken after everything that had happened the previous week. Luckily, he was not on his own this time, and Enjolras sought Grantaire’s hand and squeezed it before telling Montparnasse, “Unless you’ve got some trick up your sleeve, Montparnasse, you’ve lost.”

Montparnasse’s smirk seemed wild, an unhinged look in his eyes, and he sneered, “No trick necessary. I’ve done my part and exposed Grantaire for what he is. You know who your partner is now, who your  _lover_  is. And if you still want him after this, it’s on you to explain that to everyone who now knows that he is a murderer, that he is a criminal, that he is everything that the Avengers have sworn to fight. Not only have I discredited him, but if you support him, by extension I will have discredited all of you. With the world unable to tell the difference between Avengers and war criminals, how will they trust you to be doing the right thing?”

Enjolras growled low in his throat, his grip on Grantaire’s hand painfully tight. “You’re insane,” he snarled. “If you think the world can’t see through your twisted plan, if you think that we won’t do  _everything_ to prove you wrong—”

“You can try,” Montparnasse said, smugly. “And while you’re trying, every major criminal organization will be at work capitalizing on your efforts being expended elsewhere. And how will you focus on gaining credit for yourselves when the whole world will have gone to hell?”

Enjolras started to reply, but Grantaire laid a hand on his arm. “You’re wrong,” he said firmly. “You know what I believe in, and what I don’t, but I have to tell you, not even I think that the people of this world are stupid enough to fall for your plan. Face it, Montparnasse, without you here trying to orchestrate this whole catastrophe, what good will your plan do in the long run?”

Montparnasse smirked. “What are you going to do, Grantaire? Kill me? Send me to prison? Anything you do against me will only prove all my accusations correct.”

Grantaire smiled. “Which is why I’m not going to do anything.” He laced his fingers with Enjolras’s and turned away before tossing casually over his shoulder, “Jehan? Smash.”

He didn’t turn back to see the results, only heard the sound of Jehan’s low laughter before he did exactly what Grantaire had asked him to do. Instead, Grantaire told Enjolras softly, “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, we do,” Enjolras said, leading him away to the sound of Jehan, in fact, smashing.

* * *

 

In the quiet of one of the other abandoned warehouses, Grantaire leaned against the wall, finally able to relax for the first time that day — really, for the first time that week — closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me about Montparnasse?” Enjolras asked quietly from where he also leaned against the wall, watching Grantaire intently.

Grantaire shrugged and didn’t open his eyes. “I didn’t know he’d be a threat, and by the time I did, it was too late.”

Enjolras made a disparaging noise in the back of his throat. “I meant why didn’t you tell me about Montparnasse when you made the decision to come back here? When you got that email? Or even when you found out what Montparnasse wanted? Did you think that we wouldn’t help you?”

“Honestly?” Grantaire cracked an eye open to half-smile a little grimly at Enjolras. “I wasn’t so sure that you would.”

For a moment, Enjolras looked angry, but then his expression changed to hurt. “Do you really think so little of me?”

Now Grantaire’s eyes snapped open and he frowned deeply. “Of course not,” he said, dismissively. “It’s not you I think little of — it never has been. It’s me, it’s always been me. I’m not  _worth_  you coming to help.” Enjolras started to protest, but Grantaire shook his head. “You don’t understand — you never could. You don’t struggle with — you’re not weak like I am. You…you probably have PTSD because, well, I’d be surprised if you didn’t after all you went through, but you’re not depressed for no reason, you don’t wake up in the morning hating yourself, you don’t spend your nights reliving every shitty thing you’ve ever done. And you especially don’t try to drown yourself in alcohol so that you don’t have to remember those things.”

Enjolras was quiet, his face drawn, and Grantaire half-smiled. “Exactly. You…you’re perfection personified. You’re  _Captain France_. You got your start fighting Nazis. You’ve never done a bad deed in your life. So how could you possibly understand? And how could you find it in yourself to forgive me for everything that I have done? How could you find it in yourself to find me still worthy after all that?”

Shaking his head, Enjolras started to speak, then stopped, evidently trying to put into proper words what he was feeling. He settled for saying, quietly, “I have done bad deeds. A number of them. Most recently, I should have flown here with you. I should never have let you go on your own. Or if you had insisted, as you undoubtedly would have, I should have flown here as soon as I realized that you needed me.”

Grantaire shook his head as well, ready to cut him off, to stop him, but Enjolras barrelled onward. “You  _are_  worth it, Grantaire, especially to me. I love you for everything that you are, flaws and all, mistakes and all. If you think that I haven’t done extensive research on every single one of our team members, you’re wrong. I knew who you were from the beginning, and I’ve known all along that you’re more than some list of flaws and mistakes, and I chose you anyway, for my team as Iron Man, and in my life, as the man that I love.”

His speech was quiet but impassioned, a blaze of ferocity that Grantaire was far more used to hearing directed at useless government officials than at — or rather about — himself, and he shrugged, feeling his face flush. “You probably shouldn’t have,” he muttered. “I’m not…” He wanted to say worth it, but Enjolras seemed convinced otherwise, so he changed to saying, “It’s not like I do anything for you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Enjolras snorted, shooting Grantaire a look. “When we’re together, you never expect me to be anyone but Enjolras. You let me put away my costume and my shield and just be me. And considering that you have the most history with me, with everything you heard from your father, that’s kind of amazing that you’re able to put that aside, that you’re able to let  _me_  put that aside.”

Grantaire’s face flushed ever darker, because Enjolras wasn’t  _wrong_ , per se — Grantaire often tried to convince Enjolras to leave the superhero behind, to just let it be them, ignoring the problems of the world for a few minutes — but Enjolras was twisting it to make it seem like a sacrifice rather than Grantaire being  _immensely_  selfish. “You do the same for me,” he pointed out. “You don’t just see me as Iron Man. You know…” As he started to say it, the realization dawned on him. “You know that I’m human.”

Enjolras’s smile was gentle. “Yes,” he said, stressing the word. “I know you’re human. I know you’re flawed. I know you’re fallible. And I  _love_  you.”

There were so many arguments Grantaire wanted to make, from that part of his brain that refused to be silent unless it was thoroughly soaked in vodka or whiskey, but it didn’t matter, because Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire and kissed him, and that was enough to silence that voice for the moment. He wrapped his arms around Enjolras’s neck, pulling him closer, kissing as if it would make up for the last week, as if Enjolras’s lips against his could make everything better (and in a way, it could, because as fucked up as it inevitably was, Grantaire could always find himself again in Enjolras, could count the broken pieces of himself as whole; in a larger way, it couldn’t, because Grantaire’s mind was fucked up and he was fucked up and no amount of love and kisses could fix that, which Grantaire knew, but in that moment, didn’t care).

For a long moment, they stayed like that, Grantaire’s metal hands wrapped in Enjolras’s suit (and he mentally thanked himself for adding elasticity in the most recent redesign), Enjolras pushing Grantaire against the wall, even if leaning against Grantaire’s suit couldn’t be comfortable (in a small, rational part of Grantaire’s mind, he made a mental note to work on something related to that, to make this easier). Then they broke apart, and Grantaire managed a small smile. “So we’ve both been pretty stupid, huh?”

Enjolras laughed softly, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s. “Yeah. In more ways than one.” His expression turned serious. “Are you planning on working to get R Industries back? I know you stepped down as CEO, but you still have a significant share and I’m sure there are some board members who are on your side…”

Grantaire shook his head, smiling almost grimly. “No, I don’t think so. R Industries had its issues, and I’m not sorry to be stepping away from that. And if I sell off a few assets, and maybe my controlling share, I can get my fortune back. But my father built R Industries from scratch because at the time, it was something he believed in.” His expression took on a faraway look as he added, “Maybe it’s time I do the same. Maybe it’s time I build a company that I can believe in, and can make new memories in.”

Enjolras smiled at well, something fierce in his expression. “Well, you have Captain France’s support, for what it’s worth.”

Grantaire laughed and kissed him. “It’s worth a lot. I promise you that.” His own expression became serious, and he pulled away from Enjolras. “But in the meantime, we have a larger problem on our hands, a problem that concerns all of the Avengers, and S.H.I.E.L.D.” He took a deep breath before saying, “S.H.I.E.L.D. was funding Montparnasse. Meaning they were complicit in everything that happened here. And coupling that with them forbidding you from coming here…”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “You can’t honestly tell me that Valjean has betrayed us…”

Shaking his head, Grantaire said in a low voice, “Unfortunately, I don’t think Valjean knows. Which is even more troublesome.” He squeezed Enjolras’s hands. “Whatever we do, we have to do something to stop S.H.I.E.L.D. from becoming everything we’ve vowed to fight.”

Enjolras couldn’t seem to stop himself from grinning. “This is very serious news,” he told Grantaire, even though his expression belied that statement. “I just…I never thought I’d hear you say something like that. You never take what we do seriously.”

Grantaire half-smiled. “In this case, I think we all have to take this seriously.”

As if on cue, Jehan, not yet returned to his normal form, and Bossuet together punched through the warehouse wall, all of the Avengers spilling in with them. “What threat are we taking seriously?” Bahorel asked loudly, spinning his hammer. “Any threat against any of the nine realms is a threat we shall together defeat.”

Jehan nodded sagely, scratching his ear with his large green finger. “Jehan smash.”

Courfeyrac grinned and slung an arm around Combeferre and Feuilly, both of whom looked distinctly uncomfortable, whether from Courfeyrac’s over-the-top affection or the fact that Courfeyrac was still channeling some of the sun’s power. “Whatever threat comes our way, you know we’ll all face it,” he said loudly. “We’re a team, after all.”

Grantaire smiled and took Enjolras’s hand, weaving their fingers together tightly. “That we are,” he said lightly, leaning in to kiss Enjolras. “That we are.”


End file.
